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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135835">Eight Days</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/InSpiteOfAllTheHeartaches/pseuds/InSpiteOfAllTheHeartaches'>InSpiteOfAllTheHeartaches</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M, Fluff and Smut, I'm Going to Hell, Married Sex, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 07:14:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,946</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29135835</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/InSpiteOfAllTheHeartaches/pseuds/InSpiteOfAllTheHeartaches</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight days. That’s how long Katherine’s been gone, halfway across the country. And then she comes back.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Kelly/Katherine Plumber Pulitzer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>22</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Eight Days</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This takes place in no particular time period. Like, it could be canon era, but it's not part of my A Small Life series. It could be modern. If you require extensive plot detail in your smut this probably isn't the fic for you, tbh. Use your *throws glitter in the air* imagination.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eight days. That’s how long Katherine’s been gone, halfway across the country. Eight days.</p><p>He doesn’t blame her, of course. This is the first time the Sun have sent her away for a story, sending her to cover some political action down in Georgia. It’s her big break, and though the thought of her getting a train on her own and travelling so far unaccompanied makes his hands shake whenever he thinks about it, he’s so far had the good sense not to say anything about it. This is Katherine Plumber, after all, she’s not going to pass up a story. And he’s Jack Kelly, he’s not going to be the one to hold her back.</p><p>Still, she’s Katherine Kelly now, though they’ve been married less than two months, and there’s something about his wife out chasing stories so far away from him, who, when she’s in New York, can run over and pull her out of the trouble she’ll inevitably end up in, that just doesn’t sit right with him.</p><p>And another thing, he hasn’t slept right in days. Not the nightmares, those come and go regardless, but he’s kind of got used to having her in bed next to him. It doesn’t feel right to wake up without her twined around him, her leg thrown over his or her hair somehow in his mouth or his arm wrapped around her waist. If you’d have asked ten-year-old Jack Kelly whether he’d ever be complaining about having a bed to himself, the answer would have been a resolute no. Twenty-year-old Jack Kelly’s answer is rather different.</p><p>He’s been useless, too, at work, sick with missing her. Jack knows that he’s pathetic, but he can’t help but feel a little bit grateful when they send him home early this Friday afternoon. He’ll clean the house, he decides, make it nice for her when she comes back. That’ll surely get him in the good books, a place which, when you live with somebody like Katherine, is a very desirable place to be.</p><p>It takes him longer than it should to jimmy the lock open on their front door. It keeps sticking, and he keeps thinking that he’ll get the locksmith out, but honestly, today, he isn’t sure how much of it is the lock and how much of it is him. Jack feels sluggish and lethargic – such is being so utterly enamoured with one’s wife at age twenty, he supposes – and wrestles his tie off as he shoves the door open with his shoulder, shrugging off his suit jacket as he goes.</p><p>He throws the keys onto the little side table by the door. Katherine would tell him off, if she was here, for doing that (<em>you’ll scratch the wood, Jack</em>), but she isn’t here, is she? If the only relief from the monotony of life he’s going to get tonight is throwing his keys haphazardly onto the side table, then he’s going to damn well take it. They clatter against the wood, clink against one another. But there’s another noise, too, a distinct sort of creak that comes from that one loose floorboard at the top of the stairs and – <em>Saint Peter on the cross. </em></p><p>Katherine. Katherine is at the top of the stairs. Katherine is at the top of the stairs in a sheer fucking nightgown. And hell if that isn’t a new one on him.</p><p>“You’s back.” He says dumbly, unable to do much other than stare up at her where she’s curled on the top step.</p><p>“Really?” She arches a brow. “I hadn’t noticed.”</p><p>That’s all it takes. Jack’s tripping over himself, taking the stairs two at a time until he’s three steps from the top, three steps from <em>her, </em>and he falls to his knees, bringing him to her eye level. He’s going to be bruised to high heaven tomorrow and he doesn’t even care. Instead of wasting time on caring, time that he could be spending ravishing his wife, who is back two days early from her work trip and sat here looking like sin itself, he fits his mouth over hers and <em>devours </em>her, swallowing the little groans and whimpers that make him want to take hold of handfuls of her flesh and pull her so close to him that she won’t ever be able leave him again. He doesn’t pull away until she’s gasping for breath, and gasping for something more than that, too, if the way she’s yanking at his waistcoat buttons is anything to go by.</p><p>“This is nice.” He comments, plucking at the fabric as gently as he can, not wanting to tear it. It’s so thin, so sheer, that he’s pretty sure just the touch of his fingers might make it disintegrate. That said, that might not be such a bad thing.</p><p>“You think so?” Katherine smiles, shoving his waistcoat off his shoulders and pressing herself a little closer to him, smirking at his sharp intake of breath. “I picked it up in Atlanta.”</p><p>He’s going to come in his pants. He’s absolutely going to. <em>This. </em>This is what happens when she leaves him alone for eight whole days. Jack tilts his head back, staring determinedly at the hallway ceiling. “Fuckin’ hell, Ace.”</p><p>He can practically hear her grinning as she scoots forward on the top step to press every inch of herself against him, latching her mouth onto his neck and hooking one leg around his waist. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, you know. It was going into a shop and buying this that stopped me sacking off and coming home early.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” He huffs out, finally looking back down at her and taking hold of her other leg to wrap it around him as well, her calf against his hip, the seam of his trousers pressing into the seam of her. Katherine has to fight the urge to throw her head back and groan. “You pleased wi’ how the story came out?”</p><p>“Not as pleased as I am to be back with you.”</p><p>Jack grimaces, bucking his hips against her in a way that makes her breath hitch. “Eight days, Ace, I can’t cope wi’ that again. I ain’t been able to <em>sleep</em>.”</p><p>“You think I have?” She rolls her eyes, barely keeping hold of her sanity because she can <em>feel </em>him, even through his trousers, hard and insistent against her. “I laid awake every night in that hotel room, thinking about you-”</p><p>“What ‘bout me?” He asks, greedy for it, wanting her praise, the way that he can make dirty words spill from between the lips of this heiress, sliding his hands up under that damned, delectable nightgown, feeling her skin, the curves of her, the soft downy hair on her thighs. His, she’s his, and he’s going to take and take and take until she’s got nothing left to give.</p><p>“Your face,” she whimpers, burying her face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, sweat and newsprint and aftershave, “your smile, your hands-“</p><p>She’s so right though, about his hands, because they’re fucking <em>everywhere, </em>in her hair and on her back and fingertips digging into her thighs hard enough that there’ll be bruises tomorrow, leaving trails of fire across her skin.</p><p>“My hands, huh?”</p><p>As if to illustrate his point, he presses two fingers against her, right up into the seam of her, slipping inside with no resistance because she’s been wet since the moment he walked in the door and they both know it.</p><p>“I tried so hard, Jack, to touch myself, but I couldn’t do it.” She sees want flare in his eyes at her words, the hunger that she’s been aiming for this whole time, and there’s a smug sort of satisfaction that comes along with knowing that, no, she hasn’t lost her touch, she can still wind him up and string him out.</p><p>Katherine can almost see the gears turning in his brain behind wide eyes, the way that he’s imagining her spread out on the hotel bed, her fingers buried inside of herself, squirming and writhing for a release that she just can’t quite get on her own. It’s a lie, of course, she’s perfectly capable of sorting herself out in that regard, but a little hyperbole never hurt anyone, so she lays it on thick, whimpering.</p><p>“Your fingers are so much bigger than mine are and they didn’t <em>work. </em>Yours, they can hit this spot-“</p><p>“This one?” Jack asks, grinning knowingly as he crooks his fingers inside of her in a <em>c’mere</em> motion, the pads of his fingertips, calloused and beautiful, brushing against a little patch of rough flesh inside her. And yes, this was exactly what she needed, keening into him as he works some sort of magic inside of her. “Answer me, Kath, this one?”</p><p><em>Impossible boy. </em>“Yes, that one, you little son of a – ah!”</p><p>“You was sayin’?” She can feel him smirking, his mouth laying kisses all down the side of her neck, his fingers scissoring inside her, and it’s too much and not nearly enough all at once.</p><p>Jack grins against her skin as her hips rock into his hand, loving the little sobs and gasps that she’s burying in his shoulder. She’s so fucking responsive. She always is, but this is another level. Maybe a week off sex was just what they needed to make it this good. Who is he kidding? He’s never going a day without this again. It’s tightened her, though, her time away from him, her channel vice-like around his fingers, and it’s like their first time all over again, except this time it’s better, because he knows her and he knows what she likes, what’s going to make her moan and writhe against him, and that’s exactly what he wants. He wants her needy little cries, the way that her fingers scrabble for purchase on his arms and in his hair, taking what he’s giving her.</p><p>“Shut up.” She laughs, batting at the back of his head with her free hand as he shoots her a cheeky grin.</p><p>“C’mon, Kath, play nice.” He chuckles, twisting his fingers inside her in the way he’s learned makes her collapse against his chest, the way that undoes her. “I’s bein’ real good to you-“</p><p>“You’re so good to me.” She sighs, rolling her hips in search of that feeling that she only gets with him, frantic for him to do that thing again when he presses the pad of his thumb against her clit.</p><p>“Exactly. So, play nice. You goin’ to come for me?”</p><p>“I will if you just keep-” her huff turns into a gasp, choking on air, “-oh my word, Jack, please-“</p><p>“There you go, darlin’,” he says, easing his fingers a little so they aren’t so deep inside of her and slipping a trail from her entrance to that little pearl of nerves that he’s become so familiar with, pressing kisses into her hair, “c’mon, ‘s it, lemme hear you say my name, yeah?”</p><p>She does, she does let him hear her say his name, in fact, she’s pretty sure that her tone of voice could be described as a wail, white spots appearing behind her eyelids, her legs shaking and seizing around his hips.</p><p>It takes her a while before she can open her eyes again, before she can stop trembling, but when she does, it’s to see Jack there, sat back on his heels and grinning like he’s just won the lottery. Rolling her eyes, she grabs ahold of him and drags him on top of her, fully intending to kiss that stupid grin right off his face.</p><p>“Mm,” Jack groans into her mouth, “bedroom?”</p><p>She shakes her head, chasing his lips. “Here.”</p><p>“Bossy.” He grumbles, sounding thoroughly pleased with the idea, with her, with himself. “Jus’ ‘cos you’s Miss Top Reporter now –“</p><p>“I think you’ll find it’s <em>Mrs. </em>Top Reporter now.” Katherine laughs, pushing him off her and up against the landing wall, then straddling him and rolling her hips against his irritatingly clothed groin.</p><p>“Yeah, it is.” Jack grins up at the ceiling, his head hitting the wall behind him with a thump. And then she does it again, and all of his self-control flies out of the window.</p><p>“This <em>is </em>nice,” he says, tugging at the hem of the nightgown, struggling to get purchase on the silky fabric because she won’t stop moving in a way that is thoroughly distracting and dangerously close to finishing him before they begin, “but I wants it off.”</p><p>“Just rip it.” Katherine shrugs, reaching for the button on his trousers, then freezing as Jack stills beneath her.</p><p>She looks up at him. He’s wide eyed and thrilled with the idea, completely overtaken with it. <em>Honestly</em>, Katherine thinks, repressing an eye-roll, <em>he’s such a <strong>boy</strong> sometimes.</em></p><p>“But-“ He stammers.</p><p>“I think I’ve got my money’s worth, Jack.” She says, finally succeeding in working open the fly of his trousers and shoving her hand inside without preamble. Her fingers curl around him, practiced and clever, pulling him out, admiring him, hard and leaking. “Just rip it.”</p><p>Jack rarely does as he’s told. Now, however, with her hands wrapped around him, small and delicate and driving him up the bloody wall, Jack is pretty sure that she could ask him to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge and he’d do it. So he takes hold of the neckline of the nightgown and tears it straight in two. It wasn’t exactly made for sturdiness, after all.</p><p>And, well. If she wasn’t already sopping wet, that would have done it.</p><p>If he was too far gone, then she certainly was. There’s a stretch to it, burning and delicious, as she sinks down onto him, that isn’t there usually, that normally doesn’t have time to develop what with it being unusual for more than twenty-four hours to expire before one of them drags the other into bed (or onto a kitchen counter, or into a chair, or onto the floor). Jack’s head drops onto her shoulder as she relaxes around him, fully seated in his lap, and she takes the opportunity to trace patterns onto the sensitive skin at the nape of his neck, watching as the tendons in his neck tense. He’s all hers like this, undone and vulnerable. But even she can’t stay like that forever, so she bucks her hips against him to get him moving. And boy does he comply.</p><p>“C’mon then, Kath,” he laughs into her shoulder, one arm tight around her waist, the other fisted in her hair in a way that would, if someone was watching, look violent, except for the fact that he’s twined his fingers so loosely through it that he wouldn’t even pull it if they toppled down the stairs (which, considering their current position, is a very real possibility), “I was enjoyin’ hearin’ how much you missed me.”</p><p>“Nuh-uh.” She grins, tugging on his curls as he bottoms out inside her once again, having no such qualms about gentleness herself. “Your turn. How many cold baths have you had since I’ve been gone?”</p><p>“Least one a day, an’ you know it.”</p><p>“What a shame.” She giggles, squeezing her muscles around him in a way that makes him curse, low and filthy, against her porcelain skin. “You missed having somebody to take care of you, Jackie?”</p><p>“Don’ test me, sweetheart.” She just grins.</p><p>Lifting his head to look at her, pupils blown wide, he slows his thrusts, easing into a slow, steady slide that makes her whine and tug at his hair again, wanting more. “You’s so beautiful; I can’t believe you’s mine.”</p><p>“Ditto.” She sighs, letting her head fall back as his clever, warm mouth latches onto her breast.</p><p>“Ditto? ‘S all I get?” Jack asks, teeth scraping against her swollen nipple in a way that makes her keen.</p><p>“What, you want more?” She snaps, a challenge in her voice even as he begins to lavish his attention on the other breast. “You’ll have to earn it.”</p><p>Jack actually growls at that and she knows that she’s said the right thing, that she’s in for it now. She cries out when he hits this place inside her, driving into her deep and hard and fast and everything that she’s ever wanted, everything that she’s been dreaming of for the past week in her lonely hotel bed.</p><p>“That earnin’ it enough for you?”</p><p>“Please, Jack.” Katherine sobs, pressing her face into his cheek and bracing her hands on his shoulders</p><p>“Tell me.” He groans, every muscle clenching.</p><p>“I missed you so much.” She whimpers, running her teeth over his earlobe in a way that sends him into a full-body shudder that she wants to commit to memory forever. “I just wanted to be back at home with you, cooking in the kitchen, brushing our teeth together, in bed, you inside me-“</p><p>“Stop that.” Jack groans, pinching her side at her waist as she clenches around him. “You shows up a day early, dressed like that, lookin’ like a bloody vision, an’ expects me to handle myself?”</p><p>“Not a vision, Jack, I’m right here.” She reaches down, still moving, and takes hold of his hand where it rests on her hip and bringing it across to press against her lower belly. “You’re right here.”</p><p>He can fucking feel himself inside her, moving, cracking her open and plundering her, and that just does him in. Katherine’s right behind him, pitching forward to bury her cries in his shoulder.</p><p>“Don’ go away like that again. Please.” He whispers in her ear, heavy and hurting.</p><p>“Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I can’t tell if this crosses the line from hot to vulgar, but either way I’m going to be hiding out in the local chapel, praying for forgiveness.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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